


don't care if it hurts (holding too tight)

by x (ordinary)



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies), Mad Max: Fury Road
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-21
Updated: 2015-05-22
Packaged: 2018-03-31 13:46:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3980257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ordinary/pseuds/x
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[[ spoilers ]]</p><p>You are alive and so you are forsaken by the gods that do not exist, by the father figure who you disappointed then betrayed, by the allies who now think you dead.</p><p>--</p><p>abandoned! sorry! :(</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> spoilers, obvs

**i.**

Consciousness unhinges its wicked jaws and takes you between its teeth, dragging you up and out of the dark kicking and screaming both. You are in mourning, now, for the loss of your witnessed deed. There is no glory in survival, in the ride to the gates of Valhalla you have been so cruelly denied. You are alive and so you are forsaken by the gods that do not exist, by the father figure who you disappointed then betrayed, by the allies who now think you dead.

By all rights you should be, not just once over but twice, three times, four. You spit silver into the sand, push yourself up onto your elbows, and crawl from the wreckage under a blackened sky.

It seems that you've been tied to this world,  and all of its dirt and sand and grit. It's written in your blood, this fate, carved into your veins just as deeply as the scarification of your skin. 

A part of you dies, still pinned beneath the remains of metal twisted and burnt, even though you are free. The rig becomes an altar, the site christened by rebirth. You were a child before and that hasn't changed.

What will you do, now? Where will you go? The sun fizzles into nothing and the sand cools beneath your head. Drowsiness slips beneath your head like a cushion. 

The gates of Valhalla are so far away, and every failure has pulled you further from it, deeper into the unknown. You are lost, adrift in the void: Just because you know the way to the Citadel doesn't mean you know the way _home_. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :O i definitely did not expect such a warm response! thank you for your patience as i slowly manoeuvre <3

**ii.**  
  
History has a way of repeating itself, so when he finds you half buried beneath the sand,  lost in the oblivion of unconsciousness, you are not so surprised to see him.

This time, you are not bound by blood. This time, he is not your bag and you are not his driver. This time, your vein itches just the same as it did before, because he is the same  paragon of vitality, musk and sweat and dirt and _blood_ , and he proves it (again) by hoisting you into the air like you're nothing, setting you upright.

He inspects you like a mechanic does an engine, prodding at bruises and wounds and burns with a critical eye, and the muzzle is gone but his jaw is still shut tight. There's a story etched into the way he moves, but you've never been the intended listener. She's at the Citadel, and you don't ask why he isn't there, too.

The wanderer is not softer, or at least, not around the edges, but there's a difference in him that you can almost taste in the air and trace through the pads of his fingers as they run along your skin, the touches brief and impersonal. He judges you in one piece and pushes you back with a big hand, his head cocked.

"You live," he says, and there's no question in it, no disbelief. Just a fact. You see, now, the motorcycle behind him, laden heavy with supplies. He returns to it, procuring a leatherskin of water, tossing it to your shaking hands, the look in his eyes saying  _don't be greedy_ , but you are a pup overgrown, still a child, tested but still so young. 

You drink heavily, water spilled on your chin, cracked lips stinging. 

He straddles the bike and looks at you, expectant. You are sunstroked and starstruck, blinking your confusion in hopes he'll understand the esoteric pattern of your lashes.

Patiently, he beckons, because the chase is done and over and there's time to wait instead of throwing you on. "I drive," he says, and you don't ask to where or why, because Slit is dead and you are too, and have a chance to maybe witness something more than the stone walls of your perpetual childhood, in dark rooms waiting for blood, and--

The engine revs. The winds pick up. You climb on behind him, taking off into the desert with your fingers crossed and held high, screaming " _Witness!_ " into the wind.


End file.
